


Sex High

by gnimaerd



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:30:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimaerd/pseuds/gnimaerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Somehow the fact that she can now have this man, whenever she wants, has only fed the needy, greedy part of her that wants to be touching his abs all the time.</i> Or: Felicity fears that being able to have sex with Oliver is addling her brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex High

Felicity looks back on those first few weeks with Oliver and they feel like a dream. Or – no – more like a high. Not that she’s especially versed on the effects of opiods, brief encounter with Digg’s special ‘asparin’ aside – but it’s sort of what she imagines E or Molly or something must be like, at its best. This permanent, brightly lit, sleepy, dopey high of it all – high on Oliver, high on sex, high on (okay she’ll say it) life.

That’s literally all they do, for like the first week. They sleep, they drive, they eat and they fuck – not necessarily in that order. They have sex every morning before setting off and they christen every new hotel bed and most of the showers, too. The inside of the Porsche sees a fair amount of action when they can find private places to park, and they have sex behind some rocks on a not totally empty beach and against a tree in a park and then they have a lot of sex in a lake they discover in a forest on a nature reserve.

Felicity feels utterly, utterly drunk on it. She’s not inexperienced, not at all – she’s had sex she always thought was pretty good, all things considered, up until this point – but. She’s never quite had this level of melting-into-each-other-why-do-we-even-bother-wearing-clothes-oh-my-god-need-this-need-you-right-now-brain-exploding-heart-expanding-panty-drowning- _desperate_  physicality before.

They’re in a shop, buying postcards to send home and Felicity is staring at Oliver’s – well, his everything – but kind of also mostly his butt – and then this terrible little voice in the back of her head reminds her that if she really wanted to she could go over there and touch it. She could put her hands in his back pockets and he would probably like it, the cocky bastard.

Hell she could tow him outside to the car or find a public bathroom somewhere and take his pants off to get a look at his butt without the inconvenience of fabric in the way if she really wanted to. And now she’s having… other pants-less thoughts.

So she sidles up to him, slides her arms around his waist and flattens her palms against his abdomen, and he makes a warm, rumbling, welcoming sound in his chest. Which isn’t helping.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” Felicity presses her face to his shoulder blades, and inhales the smell of him and thinks about how his sweat would taste right now.

“Did you want something?”

“Mm.”

She doesn’t have to look to know he’s grinning at her. One of his big, calloused hands covers her own, squeezing gently.

“What’re we doing after this?” She asks, kneading her fingers against his stomach muscles.

“Dinner?” He glances back at her, eyebrows quirked, expression gently amused.

So many bad ‘eating’ jokes. No – she’s going to resist. “Can we go make out in the car first?”

“For the record,” he gives her hand another squeeze, “I’m never going to say no to that kind of request.”

“Awesome.”

And then they end up having sex in the car for the second time that week, and Felicity, in the part of her brain still capable of higher thought that afternoon, wonders how she became the sort of person who takes her boyfriend outside to have sex with him in a car. Twice in one week.

It’s three years’ worth of pent up desire loosed out of the seams of their skin and they both know it, but that doesn’t stop it taking Felicity by surprise. Because she wants him  _all the damn time_. She never stops thinking about him and she especially never stops thinking about him naked and doing stuff – sexy stuff – and – what the hell has happened to her brain?

She hadn’t thought she could possibly want Oliver, physically, more than she already did before any of this. How could she want him _more_  than she did when she was just an IT girl and he was the very pretty CEO who was inexplicably asking her favours over bullet-riddled laptops whilst she had errant thoughts about how his face would look between her thighs? More than she did when she was watching him run the salmon ladder from behind her computer, indulging her crush – like pressing on a bruise, in kind of a nice way – because she had convinced herself it could never be anything more? More than she did when she’d wake up from the occasional dream still imagining the way he’d taste?

But she does. Felicity wants Oliver on a kind if gross, visceral level that has not at all been helped by the fact that she no longer has to just  _imagine_  him naked. Somehow the fact that she can now have this man, whenever she wants, has only fed the needy, greedy part of her that wants to be touching his abs all the time.

She’s a monster. A sex-craving, Oliver-addicted monster. She literally wants to climb him like a tree. All the time.

“I mean I love you,” she tells Oliver, conversationally, one evening, as she sprawls over his chest in bed, “I love who you are, as a person, you’re – probably my favourite person. Ever. Minimally top three. But I kind of also always want you to be shirtless. Forever. All the time.”

“Can you also be shirtless all the time?” Oliver grins at her.

“I’d rather be panty-less. I think that’d be more fun. For both of us.”

Oliver groans and pulls her up to his face so he can kiss her. And shortly after that Felicity is having her third orgasm of the night – sixth total for that day.

She’s honestly not sure where she’s finding the energy.

“I should objectify you more often,” she informs him, contentedly, as she’s falling asleep.

“You can objectify me any time you want.”

“Not needing the encouragement,” Felicity yawns, “you’re so pretty. And so chiselled. And so… accessible now.”

She can feel him smiling.

“You can – access – me any time you want, too.”

“I know, that’s kind of the problem.”

Oliver huffs a breath of laughter against her jaw.  

“You’re insatiable,” he growls it into her shoulder as he climbs on top of her the next morning – she’s on her front, he’s pressing down on her back, pushing her thighs apart with a knee; this is secretly one of her favourite things, this position – it feels kind of dirty in a good way; like fucking in the car or that time she held on to the headboard and he wrapped his arm around her waist and entered her from behind whilst he growled something about never wanting to be anywhere else but inside her and – yeah.  

“Is that judgement?” Felicity arches just a little, to help him, glancing back over her shoulder at him.

“ _Pride_.” He bites down on her neck as he enters her on the ‘d’ of ‘pride’ and Felicity sees bright lights and birthday cakes.

First orgasm of the day. Awesome.

“What’re you doing to me?” She murmurs, as she sits in Oliver’s lap in the Porsche that evening, her bare feet dangling out of the driver’s side window, Oliver’s arm close about her, his other hand roving up under her skirt.

She dragged him out here half an hour ago because whilst he was reaching for something on a shelf in another tacky gift shop his shirt had ridden up and revealed the hard ridge of his hip bone and Felicity had kinda wanted to lick it. Immediately.

“You complaining?” He asks, and she grins and cranes her neck to accommodate another kiss.

“No. Nope.”

His thumb brushes fabric thin enough to make her squirm. “I thought we had a conversation about panties – ”

“The conversation was about your shirt,” Felicity tugs the collar, demonstrably, “which is still on right now, which is super inconsiderate of you.”

He snorts. “Sorry.”

“Mm.” She unbuttons him, because she’s generous like that, and presses her mouth to his chest and he makes the little rumbly, appreciative noises that she now knows means he’s getting hard and – she likes that too, a lot. That she can have that effect on him – the way he stutters sometimes and fumbles and gets a little slow and clumsy just from her touching him. “I’m pretty sure I used to think about stuff other than you naked. You’re terrible for my IQ.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound that sorry.”

“You don’t sound that upset.”

Felicity works her way up to his throat and sucks on his adam’s apple and he swallows, hard, tightening his grip on her.

“I guess I’m not – you know. Upset.”

Oliver laughs into the crown of her head and then tugs her round until she’s straddling her lap. “Oh, well, in that case…”

Of course, eventually, the sex ceases to feel quite so necessary all the time. Or maybe Felicity’s brain somehow re-calibrates being consistently and irritatingly turned on by close proximity to Oliver into something she can accommodate without immediately needing to undress him. 

When she notes that, sometime into their third month away, they’ve actually gone two whole days without having sex at all, it’s mostly out of relief.

“I mean, I only have one vagina,” she tells Oliver, “and I was beginning to worry you’d wear it right out of my pelvis.”

Oliver snorts and covers his eyes. “Thanks for that mental image.”

She plants an affectionate kiss on his forehead. “Do you think someday we’ll be old and sick of the sight of each other’s genitals?”

“I think I’m gonna need you to stop talking.”

“You could distract me with sex if you really want.”

“I thought you were worried about me wearing out your vagina.”

“Well, I mean, you’ve given her a 48 hour break. I think she’s good to go.”

“…your vagina is a she?” 

Felicity arches an eyebrow at him. “Yes. Now - do you want to see her tonight, or are you tired?”

Oliver laughs, and grabs her, and they have the kind of giggly, easy, familiar sex that happens when you know each other - when you’ve spent three months fucking like your lives depend on it and it’s just starting to sink in that there’s no need to be quite that urgent all the time anymore. Because the world isn’t ending and neither of them is marching off to die and what’s between them is safe, secure, untouchable. (Or, you know, touchable - in all the right ways). 

Because they have time, now, even once the sex high has worn off. They have each other, and that’s enough - that’s everything. 


End file.
